


The Game of Seats

by SanSese



Category: Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, M/M, One-Shot, too much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6875281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SanSese/pseuds/SanSese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being the nephew of the Governor has some advantages. I'm rich as fuck, have any car I want, boys and girls fall at my feet, and most importantly, I have the best seat at every event. My presence is a gift from Heaven for the sponsors and organizers who nearly shit themselves when my name appears on their list. Where I go, the media follows, the cameras roll and the gossip starts. I would be lying if I say I don't enjoy it. Eyes are made to stare, you know?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Game of Seats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Haxxaholic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haxxaholic/gifts).



> For Aurore
> 
> Written for the prompt: "you’re in my seat this is my seat see i can prove it like it even has my name on it who do you think you are sitting your ass down on MY seat."

The Rolls-Royce comes to a still. I barely feel the difference, the music blasting through the speakers loud enough to cover any other sound. I finish my coke slowly, appreciating the familiar taste. Soon, all I will be drinking tonight will leave an expensive taste in my mouth, because at the Globe Theater 'we don't serve soda sir!' I snort at the shocked face of the woman still imprinted in my mind when she had asked what I wanted to drink. I love messing with people, but I had been dead serious that night. I'm addicted to coke, and where the fuck didn't they sell it? Isn't it like, a personal offense to not have coke at home?

The door opens and puts me out of my inner monologue. I push my sunglasses up my nose and leave my comfortable bubble to grace the world of my presence. Yes, it's dark and I can't see shit, but hey, living the thug life. Paris, the PA, hurries after me, his Ipad tucked under his arm. Once at my level, he matches my step. I know he's rolling his eyes at me, wondering how Rosaline had let me go out dressed like that. I shook my head before he could open his mouth, having no intention to let him lecture me on my fashion choices. I rock these purple pants, thank you very much. 

Paris tugs at my black sleeve, muttering. "You almost walked into a pole." Oh. "Thanks for not making me look like a fool, then." I hear him again whispering to himself, a habit he had acquired over the years he had been my assistant. Something in the lines of 'it's already too late for that'. Paris, always the joker. I decide to tuck the sunglasses up my hair, because I really can't see, and head up the stairs. I could take the elevator, but, gotta keep this athletic body ya know? 

The theater is half packed when I stroll in the vip box, waving my hand at the hysteric girls who are screaming at me from their 20 dollar seats. I grin, revealing the grills adorning my teeth, spelling Mercutio in silver. I spit them out and hand them to Paris, who is busy with his Ipad, and almost drops it when the jewel makes contact with his hand. I ignore his angry spluttering and all but strut to my designed seat. My beloved, cushioned, golden seat, towering over the theater, far away from the common people, and close to the stage. 

As I approach my favorite chair, I see something unusual. It's wrong on so many levels that I choke on my words, and Mercutio never chokes. Someone's butt is touching the red satin of my seat, and that someone is not me! Behind me, Paris gasps, realizing the situation, but I don't care. War has been declared. Poker face on, I tap the guy's shoulder. 

"You’re in my seat, this is my seat ,see, I can prove it like it even has my name on it, who do you think you are sitting your ass down on my seat?" Fuck courtesy. And I'm not joking with my name. The big, bright, curvy M is stretched on the material, impossible to miss. Seriously, what the hell??

The thief turns around, his eyebrows furrowed. He shrugs then, pointing with his index at the empty seats all around us. How dare he? The motherfucker! I squint my eyes. "I don't care, you're in my seat, the one that has been designed for me even before my birth, who bears the marks of my ass, so, please, move." Paris begins to panic in the background, typing furiously on his phone. I hope he's calling the security, for this man still hasn't made one single intention to leave. What if the seat begins to smell like this fucker? 

I take his arm, forcefully, and try to budge him out of my seat, just as Paris grabs my waist and push me down on the floor. "What the hell Paris?" My assistant is shaking his head, lips trembling. "It's...it's him, Mercutio." Him. What do I do with this information? "What? Unless he's God incarnated, this guy has some explanation to do." I cross my arms, glaring at the back of my seat. Paris tries to hush me, his cheeks flaming. "Him, as in, sir Montague." Oh. I gulp. Shit. "Well, fuck me." Paris is livid now, as I realize I just said this out loud. 

I scramble up, dusting of my pants and offer my most sincere apology to the man. "I am so, so sorry, sir Montague. Of course you can sit here, you can even take it with you, change the M in another M, burn it down for all I care." Haha. Please don't burn it down. Sir Montague still hasn't said a word since the beginning, and I feel like a complete idiot. Paris is holding his breath somewhere on my right, his finger hovering over the emergency button in case. In case of what? "It's a very comfortable seat, I understand why you are so attached to it." Sir Montague smiles, getting up. "Please, sit down where you belong." He's older than me and speaks like the characters in his plays, fucking great.

I plop down on my property, noticing the warmth through my pants. Butt sweat. Ew. Sir Montague nods and chooses another seat. Paris slumps down next to me, using his Ipad as a fan. "I was already planning your funeral." Charming. I flash my resting bitch face at him, but can't reply, because the most exquisite of all creatures suddenly enters the vip box. I watch the young man find his seat, my eyes falling on the curve of his ass, unconsciously licking my lips. Damn, he's fine as fuck! But why does he sit next to sir Montague? 

Paris whispers. "His nephew, Benvolio." Again, so useful, Paris. "No shit, Sherlock." I feel Benvolio's stare on me. I look back at him, giving him my trademark lopsided grin. He blushes, before talking with his uncle briefly. He gets up and takes the seat to my left, all shy and innocent. 

"Hey." He breathed. I ignore Paris' snickering and smile. "Hey to you too." I can't believe I actually said this, god. Benvolio tilts his head towards sir Montague. "My uncle is very sorry for the inconvenience." I shrug. What was that last word again? " I hope you will still enjoy the show." His dimples should be forbidden. "Yeah, I mean, sure!" Benvolio laughs. "Good. I know of a place where we could go after the show, if you want." I like where this is going. "Oh yeah?" He smirks. "My beloved, cushioned, golden bed with the big, bright curvy M stretched all over it."

**Author's Note:**

> Heh.


End file.
